


Once

by This_Bloody_Cat



Series: 15 Drabbles (that turned out NOT to be drabbles anymore) [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: I honestly don't know how to tag this., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 17:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12370419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_Bloody_Cat/pseuds/This_Bloody_Cat
Summary: Should death come for me, he thinks.





	Once

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Betaed by Iwao. Prompted [here](https://this-bloody-cat.livejournal.com/49883.html?thread=621019#t621019).

“Do you think there are ice rinks in Hades?” Draco asks. 

He's more quiet today than he usually is, lying back on Harry's chaise longue like it's his. Then again, if Harry let himself recall, he'd know it is; if he could remember the day they decided to move in together, how he stood by watching Draco pick furniture to take with him from his half-empty manor house... 

He'd been so full of life, then. 

It's part of what drove them close. But Harry won't revisit those memories. He won't go that far back — those are kept in the banned memories section, the recycle bin; he won't go in there. 

They're all memories of things he should never recall, for his own good.

It's pointless, isn't it? Mostly because there's no future. 

The future, the way Harry sees it, is just the compound of thoughts elaborated by a hyperactive mind who knows nothing, knows no one, who doesn't even know if tomorrow will be tomorrow or if it'll be nothing, and nowhere and... and…

And no one.

But there's past. The sad thing is, there's  _ only  _ past.

“Hell must have frozen over by now,” Draco says, softly. “A hundred times over...”

And Harry thinks, even this moment here is past, because everything, everywhere is past and there's not even present — present is but an instant, a mere second,  _ a moment _ — and then it's gone. 

Another moment; another moment gone. Passed. 

As in: past tense. 

As in: the past.

He wonders if Draco still notices these things. Time passing by. He used to pay attention to what Harry did, what his schedule was, where he went, with whom… 

Harry guesses he still does. Or rather, he tells himself he does. 

“Merlin, Harry —” Draco jumps up from his chaise longue and glides over towards him. 

That's it, yes. You got it. He  _ glides _ . 

It almost makes Harry want to snort a laugh, only there's nothing laughable about this.

“—dy hell, you're not even listening to me!”

“I am.”

“Are you?” He glares at Harry. “Then you should be saying, ‘You wouldn't know though, would you?’”

“I wasn't —” Harry swallows. “I'd never say… That.”

“And you'd be right, you know? Because I never. Fucking. Got there.” He raises his arms, as if that gesture could explain the complexity of his existence. Unfortunately, they slide against Harry's wrist, and Harry can't help but shudder; he can feel the air chill as it goes through him, a bit like an air-conditioning device, only… gross. “Instead, I got stuck here,” Draco says. “With you.”

_ Always _ , they said, but sometimes Harry wonders if Draco loves him still. Even though he can barely touch him, even though more often than not the sheer contact with Draco's skin — only, ugh, it's not like  _ real skin  _ — makes him shiver.

“Would you rather be...” his hand goes right through Draco's hair when he touches it. He bites his lip, shuddering.  _ Dead _ , he should say, but every once in a while the word drags through his throat and gets stuck, “... gone?” 

“No.” Draco shakes his head. “Not yet.”

_ Not yet _ , that's what Harry thinks, but he wonders, what will it be of Draco once he's gone? He smiles, sadly. It's funny: ages ago, they used to be the same age, far before the... accident. 

If only there were a spell to turn into a ghost. 

_ Should death come for me _ , he thinks. His life, in one of those old poems.


End file.
